Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
((How do you respond?))
Ewan ducked into the tattered tent, the dim candlelight casting eerie shadows on the walls as he approached the ancient crone seated at the back. The pungent aroma of decay and damp moss clung to his skin from his journey through Aevos' swampy outskirts. As he lowered himself onto the offered cushion, the hag's piercing gaze met his, her eyes searching for something in his worn Highlander features. "Expecting me, you say?" Ewan replied warily, his hand instinctively drifting to the sheath at his hip where Thorne's perfectly serrated bread knife now resided alongside his battle-worn sword. The crone's knowing smile only heightened his unease as he recounted his tale of forgotten battles and an unlikely path into the world of bread, leaving unsaid the burning question that had drawn him to this forsaken place - what lay in store for a warrior turned baker who sought not gold or glory, but the perfect loaf?
(I am 100% serious, please let me be Ewan the baker.)
